


Endgame

by Ashfae



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Brothers, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Denethor's A+ Parenting, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Gondor, Minas Tirith, Young Boromir, Young Faramir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 13:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16893378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashfae/pseuds/Ashfae
Summary: Faramir and his father meet every few days to play chess. It never seems to go as Faramir wishes.An examination of the family dynamic between the Steward and his two sons.





	1. Chapter 1

The door opens silently, the hinges well-oiled to move without so much as a squeak. The boy who enters is almost as silent, his feet stepping on the smooth marble floor with barely a tap of leather soles, and when he closes the door behind him he turns the doorknob carefully so that the latch fits into place with only the faintest click. Through the window comes the sound of the last chime of the citadel bells, marking the time as two hours past noon.

He looks at the large, broad desk that fills most of the wall to the left. It is covered with piles of paperwork, kept in precise order for all that there are multitudes of them, and an assortment of pens and ink, seals and wax, and a small, unlit candle. There is no need for the latter yet; the sun fills the room, making it bright. Despite this the room remains cold, the stark white floors bare of rugs, the walls covered by only a few hangings, and one portrait of a beautiful woman in a pale pink gown, her dark hair falling over her shoulder in elaborate, deliberately placed curls, her smile faintly wistful.

The man sitting at the desk does not glance at his son, who now stands waiting, feet planted and his hands clasped quietly behind his back. Neither shows any impatience. The boy waits, and the man works, pen scratching as he writes several more lines and signs his name carefully to the bottom of the missive, then places a paperweight on the page so it will not be disturbed by any stray breeze.

"Come." The word falls into the empty silence with a thud. They both move, the man standing and the boy turning. There is another small table in the room, sitting next to a window beside the portrait. The boy's eyes look up at the portrait. There is an unmistakable resemblance in their features, and for a moment his expression is as wistful as hers. 

Father and son take their seats on either side of the small table, on which a chessboard is laid, the pieces already in their lines for a new game. The boy shifts a little, as though trying to sit comfortable in his seat and failing. His father gathers his thick fur robe around him and sits as though expecting the chair to accommodate itself to his wishes, and steeples his hands together as he waits.

The boy moves the white pawn to E4. There is no stronger first play, but his fingers linger on the pawn before letting it go, and once released he still stares at the piece. The white pieces are all made from ivory, intricately carved, whorls and spirals dancing from top to bottom. Whenever he holds one in his hand, he can feel a hundred delicate points press into his skin.

His father waits before choosing his move. When he reaches out his hand seems carved from the same granite as his pieces: strong and smooth, unyielding, the only difference that his hand is flesh instead of dark stone. Black pawn to C5. 

The boy's lips tighten, recognizing what the opening portends. He is almost a young man rather than a boy, his shoulders straight and well-muscled, his eyes guarded. But the tilt of his head, the uncertain glimpses across the chessboard, still speak of boyhood. Just as reluctantly as before, he reaches out. His hands are younger, stronger, calloused and clean. His movements are slow, cautious. White knight to F3.

There is no glint of approval in his father's eyes. Without glancing at his opponent he makes his move without hesitation, only a smooth glide of motion, a click as the stone piece takes its new place. Black pawn to D6.

The game continues. The boy's play is aggressive but reluctant, his father's defence implacable as he draws out his son, gives him opportunities to make mistakes and then ruthlessly takes advantage of them. The boy's eyes linger on the growing piles of captured pieces, or on the game, or on his father's hand--never on his father's face. In contrast his opponent looks only at the board, even once his victory is certain. 

The boy breathes a small, almost imperceptible sigh once it is clear he is going to lose, that there is no way out, and his father's eyes tighten. "Finish," he says curtly. "Do not abandon the endgame, even if the result looks unavoidable. Your opponent may yet make a mistake, or falter in some way."

"You never make mistakes." The words are quiet and said without reproach or frustration, only a faint tinge of resignation. The boy makes the best move he can, and manages not to wince as his father takes the pawn that was unavoidably left undefended. 

"No, for I cannot afford it. And neither can you." Another move and exchange of pieces. There are captured pieces on both sides, but the father disregards the lost pawns and knights, whereas the boy often looks at them, and his eyes and mouth twitch as though he is suppressing some emotion he will not show.

"I am sorry my efforts are so unworthy," the boy says quietly, making his last move. His father moves his rook, and the king is pinned. There is nowhere to run. The boy does not lean back. He does not move or relax at all. He sits straight and tall in his chair, head a little bowed. 

His father waves a hand, leaning back and steepling his fingers once more. "You will learn," he says, voice stern . "Every piece on the board has its use, and even a pawn is powerful if it is in the right place at the right time. Wisdom is learning to recognize the right place and right time; skill is arranging for the pieces to be there beforehand."

The boy reaches out for one of the pawns he captured earlier, touching the smooth, black head, tilting it slightly on the table. His grey eyes are quiet. "Would you play again, my lord?"

His father stands. "No, for there is not time. You may return at the same hour in three days if you wish a rematch." The finality of this dismissal is unmistakable. "If I am not mistaken—and you have just said I never am—you have sword practice with your brother ere long." The firm lines around his eyes and mouth soften just a little at this mention of his other son, the affection there obvious and open even when the other is not present. He returns to his desk, sits and pulls out a sheaf of paper. Before he starts to read he fixes his son with a gimlet stare. "I am informed that you progress with your shield work, but are yet weak in your offence. Try to learn from his example."

The sarcasm is pointed enough to make the boy wince. He bows and takes his leave, shutting the door behind him as silently as when he entered.

Once on the other side a great tension leaves him, and Faramir lets out a loud breath and slumps briefly against the wall, closing his eyes for a minute. There are a few brief seconds of peace before someone clouts him rudely on the head. He yelps and looks up reproachfully.

"Caught you napping." Boromir grins, and this time when he reaches out it is to ruffle his brother's hair. Faramir groans and ducks out of the way of this rough affection.

"I get plenty of sleep—unlike some! You're lucky Father does not know how you sneak out at night."

Boromir laughs, a ringing, boisterous sound, clapping Faramir on the back and pulling him along down the hallway. "What makes you think he does not? He knows everything."

“Alas, that is too true.” 

The sigh is unfeigned, and they walk together down the corridor. Boromir unobtrusively shortens his stride a little so his younger brother can keep up. “Did you win?”

“Of course not!” Faramir’s frustration finally shows, in his voice and his eyes, in the hand he waves futilely in the empty air. “You said yourself he knows everything—including every move I might play.”

“I fail to see how. You beat me every time.”

“That is because you do not care about the game.”

“No.” Boromir's eyes are sympathetic. “It is because I have nothing to prove in a game of chess. I am a fair player and enjoy the tactics of it, but I will never defeat either of you, and it would waste all our time for me to pretend otherwise. I prefer to develop the talents I do possess, and I am better on a real battlefield than a pretend one."  
They walk in silence for a time, Faramir frowning at the hallway floor, Boromir deliberately looking elsewhere to grant him a measure of space. It is several minutes before either speaks again. 

“I wish I might do anything that pleased him,” Faramir says finally, his voice low. His steps echo on the marble floor, less carefully placed than they had been in his father's office. “It is not that I cannot defeat him, it is that I had hoped, with these—we both love the game, as you do not, so I thought there would be no basis for comparison, but even then—so I have tried to play the way you fight with a sword, aggressively, as he prefers—“

"You always try to do everything as I would do it!" Boromir reaches out and thwacks him lightly on the head. “Little brother, it is bad enough that he constantly expects you to follow my dubious example without your doing his work for him.”

Faramir looks up, rubbing his head but with a slight glint of humor in his eyes. “So you admit you are dubious?”

Boromir laughs, a clear, boisterous sound. “Do not change the subject! To judge yourself so harshly when you compare your weaknesses to my strengths is folly. Yes, even in Father, wise as he is in other respects. I do not look any better when we compare my weaknesses to your strengths."

Faramir smiles briefly. "But he values your strengths, not mine, such as they are. And he forgives your weaknesses, whereas mine—" He breaks off, looking back at the floor. "Mine are too numerous, or too unalterable, it seems. Whatever I do to try and improve—"

"Faramir." Boromir's eyes are gentle in his strong, handsome face. "You do not need improvement. You are but thirteen! Growth will come in time, and with it skill. You have your own gifts, and they are considerable and more than worthy." He ruffles his brother's hair again, this time successfully. "You need not be me. Nor would I have you be."

The last words are spoken with obvious, unquestionable affection, and Faramir brightens in face of it, returning the fond expression for a moment before abruptly grinning. "No—for one of you is bad enough!"

Boromir lets out a hoot of protest and reaches out again, but Faramir is quick to duck, and both laugh as they chase each other down the corridor and into the outdoors towards the training yards.

Three days later as the bells chime two hours past noon, Faramir once more knocks on his father's door, then enters, moving as silently as he did the day before. Once more he stands and waits, tense and patient, as the Lord Denethor finishes the task that currently has his attention. Once more they walk to the chess table; once more he lifts his eyes wistfully to his mother's face, wondering how different all their lives would be if she were still among them.

They sit, and he moves his first piece—Pawn to E4—and they begin. It is a familiar set of opening moves, not the same as those of the previous game but still attempts to control the middle four squares of the board and open the way for later attacks. The first few moves of a game are always predictable, falling into one of a set number of patterns. Faramir arranges his defenses, watches his father arrange his.

He reaches out to make his first attack and hesitates, his finger lingering on the head of a pawn. An exchange of pieces is indicated by moving it, a strong move, a bold move. One such as Boromir would make.

Instead Faramir moves a different pawn. His father moves a knight, and Faramir moves his own knight at once. Denethor's eyes narrow slightly at the unusual surety in the gesture.

The game is altogether different. There is no more hesitation in any of Faramir's choices. Instead of glibly exchanging pieces he lays traps of his own, waits, avoids his father's attacks. Some of Faramir’s moves are ones Denethor has used against him in the past; others are purely his own. Fewer pieces are exchanged, and none without need. Denethor's frown grows more pronounced and more considering as the match continues. 

In the end Faramir still loses, but even though he does not second-guess any of his plays the game lasts longer than usual, and there is no drawn out endgame on a barren board. Instead it is a subtle placement of pieces that undoes him, moves that leave him with no options save the one his father allows, until his king is pinned in a cluster of both their pieces. Again he sighs when it becomes clear that he will be left with no recourse to win, but he calmly plays out the rest of the match. When he has no move save to lay down his king, he looks up at his father's face, for whatever judgement awaits him there.

Denethor is still studying the game board, his expression contemplative, his piercing gaze riveted on the pieces. He looks at them in silence for several minutes, frowning. There is still no hint of approval in his face, but there is attention.

He stands abruptly, returns to his desk. "We will play again tomorrow." He does not glance at Faramir, instead pulling out a fresh piece of paper and dipping his pen. "At the same hour."

He says nothing more. Faramir bows and leaves in silence, but there is a smile pulling on the edge of his mouth.


	2. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A postscript to the previous story.

Decades later, Faramir stands in a different room. The walls and floors are also carved from white marble, pristine. This room too is cold, and more bare of decoration than his father's study ever was. It is bare of nearly everything, being but new built, and that on the ashes of the building that stood before. Much of Faramir's work of the past few years has been building new things on the ashes of what came before.

Slowly he reaches out a hand and runs it over engraved letters: _Denethor II, son of Ecthelion II, Ruling Steward of Gondor, T.A. 2930 - 3019_. Underneath are a number of lines in Quenya, and another sentence in a more common language. " _Nienna's mercy be granted to this son of Gondor, who loved his country well_." 

Faramir lets out a low breath, glancing up at the stone face carved into the marble. The features are as hard as they ever were in life, but more peaceful here. "May it be so, Father," he murmurs, fingers resting as lightly on the letters as they once did on the head of an ivory white pawn. He stands for a long time, thinking of mistakes made, of endgames both fought and abandoned.

"Father? Are you nearly done?"

The voice from the door is that of a young boy, impatient and restless. Faramir smiles as he hears it, his heart lifting in his chest. Some of the things he has built these past few years bring him more joy than others.

He takes a step back and bows to the statue that lies sleeping in the marble wall, holding the pose for a moment. Then he stands and walks with quick, firm steps out into the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tea, BG, and Fyre for betaing. Any remaining mistakes are purely mine.


End file.
